


Through the push and the pull

by lonelywalker



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-06-06 19:41:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6767251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonelywalker/pseuds/lonelywalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-2x18.</p><p>What Joe needs is right here, right now. A man he’d tried to kill. A man he’s slammed against walls and hit till he bled. Now all Joe wants to do is touch that face, tangle fingers up in Harry’s already-tangled hair, feel the body under the coat he’d made Harry take off at the door, the skin underneath the black...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through the push and the pull

Of all the things Joe had expected to miss, it hadn’t been this. 

His love life hasn’t been worth mentioning in years, in all the years since Francine left. The wedding ring put off most people, and the people it didn’t… Well, he’d thought twice about them then. There were always enough excuses, for himself and for others. He was a single father to one and then two children. He was a detective working long hours that often stretched longer. Most of the people he met weren’t his kind of people, and the ones he did find himself spending an evening with weren’t the kind he could ever take to dinner.

Who knew what Barry and Iris thought? Probably what every kid thinks about their parents, that no one over forty has or wants sex. Or maybe that he was getting plenty and just never said, and no way in hell were they going to bring it up. There was always the occasional teasing comment from Iris, but she had her own love life to worry about – a love life she wanted to keep as far away from her dad as possible. So he’d more or less settled into a cozy, comfortable existence that involved nothing more passionate than baseball games on the TV. Everything he’d thought he would miss was something he could counter with just how much trouble it was to find someone – the fear of rejection, the problem of making dates and keeping them, the awkwardness of things turning physical, worrying if Iris and Barry would approve… And it wasn’t as if he was lonely. He was fine. He was busy. He had to spend his time fighting evil and forming a paternal bond with Wally. His needs could be taken care of much more easily in the shower every other morning. 

And still. It only took the _smell_ of him for Joe to regret it all.

He stumbles through things, Harry Wells. It had taken Joe far too long to figure it out, finally looking past everything he associated with that face, looking past the aggression and anger, and seeing the awkwardness at his core. A man who knew how to be painstakingly polite and outrageously violent, and faltered at the in-between. A man who had shown up at Joe’s door for only the second time an hour ago, seeming more anxious than anyone who normally shouldered a pulse rifle ever should.

“I haven’t heard anything about Jesse,” Joe had snapped, instantly regretting it, because what had put him on edge – Wally kidnapped, Barry almost dying – was a hell Harry was still going through.

Harry hadn’t recoiled. Just observed him for barely a second, eyes slightly narrowed. “I came to see if you were okay. If you needed anything.”

Joe had launched into an explanation about how Wally was hanging out with friends to take his mind off things, and Iris had a deadline, and Barry was still at the lab trying to work through every conceivable plot and plan with Cisco (which Harry must’ve known, seeing as he spent twenty-three hours a day in that place, if not twenty-four). Harry had smiled a little and said “Yes,” which wasn’t a response to anything Joe had said at all, and gone to help them both to a tumbler of bourbon.

“So,” Harry had said after that. “You’re not okay. What do you need?”

In every relationship Joe’s ever had, everything from his marriage, to high school sweethearts, to one night stands, he could never remember afterward when exactly conversation had folded into something more. Into his hand on Harry’s hip, his lips at Harry’s throat, breathing in that cologne-and-motor-oil scent that reminds him of at least one other boy he’d kissed like this, his tongue running over the roughness of evening stubble. Harry’s breath stutters and catches, his hand drifting over Joe’s shoulder to clasp his head, guide him up so Harry’s mouth presses urgently against his.

The kids are out. The kids could be back any second, all three of them, gaping in the doorway. Some other time it wouldn’t matter – or he tells himself it wouldn’t matter – but they’re lost, traumatized. They need him. They need him to be an unflinching pillar of support, to be there for them at all times, to help and reassure them, to get them through all the storms and troubles of everything from schoolwork to megalomaniac supervillains.

But what _he_ needs is right here, right now. A man he’d tried to kill. A man he’s slammed against walls and hit till he bled. Now all Joe wants to do is touch that once-bruised face, tangle fingers up in Harry’s already-tangled hair, feel the body under the coat he’d made Harry take off at the door, the skin underneath the black. 

“Hey,” he says softly, not really meaning to follow it up with anything, but he gets a flash of those blue eyes in return, eyes that are startling even in the dull glow of lamplight. 

Harry smiles. Not one of those thin barely-smiles, but one that shows his teeth, puts dimples in cheeks every mother would love. “Hey Joe.”

Where is the point of no return? Probably he can only see it in rear-view mirrors now. He’d split open Harry’s lip with his fist once and they’d moved past it. Moving past this… It’s not something he can do.

He turns into the hand that’s cupping his jaw, the thumb stroking his beard. Kisses it. “Come upstairs,” he says.

When was the last time he locked his bedroom door? He’d half forgotten there even was a lock, but Harry blindly reaches out and turns the latch when Joe presses him up against it, against the two suit jackets hanging there, washed two weeks ago and not yet worn.

Joe had expected a man so tightly wound would shove back, grab him, make a wrestling match out of it. But Harry seems absolutely happy where he is, Joe’s thigh shoved between his legs, hands gripping Harry’s biceps. Harry gasps and moans into his mouth, hips raising, pushing against that thigh. Joe wants to thrust a hand down there and feel him, feel how hard he is already, but he keeps hold, because however hard and desperate their kisses are, this isn’t something he wants to be over quickly.

He’s seen Harry nearly nude before, but it had been nowhere near erotic, seeing him hooked up to Caitlin’s life support machines, swathed in bandages, pale as death. Not that Harry is much less pale on an everyday basis. The black does that. Probably his almost mole-like existence inside the lab isn’t helping. Joe lets one arm go, just so he has a hand free to find the hardness of Harry’s nipple through his shirt. “Like that?” Joe asks, but Harry’s already looking past him, mouth open, lost in the feeling of Joe’s fingers, Joe’s body against his. How long has it been for him? Probably nowhere near how long it’s been for Joe. And yet Harry almost chokes when Joe ducks his head and licks, sucks on that nipple through the thin fabric that seems designed solely to show off his pecs. 

_You’re going to come for me_. The thought springs into his head and almost slips past his lips. Instead of saying it, or even letting his mind linger on it, he pulls up the shirt instead.

He’s thought before how slender, almost insubstantial Harry is whenever he’s seen him in the lab in nothing but these clothes. The coats, the boots, the weapons… They give an impression that’s exactly correct about what this man can do, but completely wrong when it comes to the body that’s actually under them. 

Well, maybe not _that_ wrong.

Joe takes half a step back, letting Harry’s shirt fall from his fingers. Harry’s pale all right, pale enough that Joe would seriously worry about his vitamin D intake, and that makes his scars all the more vivid. It’s not like Joe doesn’t have a few of his own, but these are recent: the slash from Grodd he’d watched Caitlin stitch back together, the too-tightly-drawn skin over his heart, something else in the joint of his shoulder… He should _not_ want to bundle up and look after a man who’s older than he is. But he can make him feel good, and the rest of Harry’s body – the anatomy-book muscles, the flat stomach, the trail of hair leading under his belt – helps that idea along.

Harry tips his head back as though he’s begging Joe to hit him or kiss him, his gaze thoughtful. “So?” 

“You need to take better care of yourself,” Joe says.

Harry pushes himself off the door with his shoulders, tracing a fingertip along that long scar at his side. Joe wonders if it itches. “Are you going to take care of me, Joe?”

Smiling really breaks the porn-scene illusion of it all. Laughing is even worse, but Joe can’t help it, sitting down on the edge of his mostly-made bed and levering off his shoes while Harry just looks quizzically at him, crossing arms in front of his bare chest, trying to decipher the joke.

“Okay,” Joe says, and pats the comforter beside him. “I’ll take care of you. But we’re both too old to be fucking up against doors. That door might be too old too.”

A smile finally quirks Harry’s lips. “Tell you what,” he says in that whisper-growl of his Joe would find irritating if it wasn’t so goddamn sexy in the moment. “My knees can still take some punishment.”

Joe’s mind is only halfway through thinking _Jesus_ when Harry leans in, kisses him, and pushes his knees apart. So much for him taking care of Harry. Harry undoes his belt and fly without a fumble, and it’s while he’s pulling Joe’s pants and undershorts all the way off that Joe wonders what he looked like as a young man. _Like Barry_ he thinks, and makes himself deny he ever thought it, because he doesn’t want thoughts of his foster son anywhere near his thoughts of Harry and what Harry is doing right now. But there are reasons why it came to mind: those sharp blue eyes that could easily be guileless and innocent, the messy hair, lithe figure. Maybe it was the military that turned him hard, thrusting a gun into his hands, rutting against him in the long dark nights to stave off fear and loneliness. Maybe it was something much later.

“Are you with me, Joe?” Harry says, and he really is down on his knees now, his breath warm on Joe’s bare thighs, on his half-hard cock.

“Yeah… It’s been a while, you know?”

Which is not the smartest thing to say, but Harry just hums his agreement and flicks the underside of Joe’s cock with his tongue, licking the length of it, getting a taste before ducking his head and taking Joe in.

 _Oh._ It’s nothing new or unfamiliar, the wet warmth of a mouth around him, the expertise of a clever tongue. But it’s something he’d missed without knowing he was missing it, his body rediscovering old sensations, nerve endings suddenly buzzing once more. He wants to lie back, close his eyes and relax, enjoying it like a good massage. And he wants to jerk the hips that are already unconsciously rocking forward, wants to grab Harry’s head and fuck that mouth, come down his throat.

What he does is breathe. Sinks a hand into that hair and just feels Harry move, savoring the moment, the sensations, the very idea that he finally has a man in his bedroom sucking his cock and enjoying it. “Jesus, Harry,” he breathes, and he’s pretty sure that Harry smiles back. Smartass.

He really doesn’t want to come. He wants it to last, when he finally does lie back, bunching a pillow up behind his head. He wants it to last, and for there to be more beyond that. He wants to get Harry out of those jeans for starters. And time is something age has given him, time and the luxury to enjoy every second of this without having to tense muscles and bite his tongue and think about _anything_ else. No, he can think about Harry, right here, right now.

In the end, Harry’s the one who stops it. Slowly, though, letting Joe slip out from between lips that are redder than Joe’s ever seen them, away from one last lick of his tongue. Harry pushes his hair back and, standing up, kicks off his shoes.

Joe wants to ask questions – his whole life has been centered around asking questions – although it doesn’t take a detective to infer the answers. Harry had lost his wife. Harry had raised a daughter as a single father. Harry had spent years with no serious relationships. The information he wants is right there in his own life.

He pushes himself up on his elbows and wriggles out of his shirt, watching Harry as best he can as Harry drops those utility jeans, all seams and patches. Okay, so the boxer-briefs are black, and Joe can’t help smiling a bit at _that_ theory being confirmed, but that’s not in any way what grabs his attention most. Even with the color detracting from the usual play of light and shade, there’s no avoiding the way those shorts cling oh-so-tightly to his lean body, and bulge out in a way that is undeniably impressive.

Harry’s still wearing them when he kneels up on the bed and leans into Joe, pressing him back into that pillow and kissing him. And that is just fine, because while Harry’s hands are occupied with holding up his weight, Joe’s are free to stray down that long, smooth back and feel the way those shorts stretch around an ass Joe would like to get to know better. He lifts his hips just a little, and there Harry is, pushing into him, rubbing against his slick cock, as hard as he is. 

Joe cups Harry’s ass, squeezes, wondering if he’s called this right after all. Harry might like to be on top, in control as he is now. But that’s not all he likes. Joe slides two fingers down the crack of that ass, curls them inward a little, strokes… Harry groans and ducks his head down to Joe’s shoulder, pushing back against the fingers.

“Take them off,” Joe says.

Harry rolls off him, removing the shorts in the same motion and flinging them away so hard they hit Joe’s closet door with a dull thud.

Something in Joe’s mind tells him to look at Harry, at this pale, naked man stretched out on a bed that’s only going to get messier, and not to look away. Because when is this going to happen again? Another day, another night, they’ll both have better sense, if sense even comes into it. Their lives revolve around coping with ever-present dangers – a situation punctuated by moments of genuine terror. Hell, if good-looking kids in their twenties can’t find a spare hour to get laid, what chances do they have?

And still, there’s Harry. Harry with his scars, the lines around his eyes, the threads of silver in his hair. Harry with his thick, stiff cock amid starkly dark hair, a cock he’s caressing now, eyes on Joe. Joe pushes his hand away. “I said I’d take care of you, didn’t I?”

Harry breathes out a laugh and tucks that hand up behind his head, his thighs spreading just a little more.

How many boys does he have on his Earth? Powerful, famous, rich, he could have his pick of anyone. On this Earth his options are limited, but he still doesn’t _need_ to be in Joe’s bed, hips rolling in time with his own gasps as Joe takes a practiced, lubed-up hand to his cock. “Joe…”comes with one of those gasps quickly enough. “You’d better fuck me.”

Before Joe can decide how he wants it, Harry’s rolling over onto his stomach, reaching for pillows – one for his head, another under his hips, raising an ass Joe isn’t going to be able to forget, no matter how shapeless the jeans Harry inflicts on them. An ass that _next_ time… Well, that means admitting there’ll be a next time. But Joe wouldn’t take much convincing to have Harry just this way again, and to discover just what happens to the emotionless scientist when Joe eats him out. _This_ time, though, he’ll make do with a lot of lube and fingers that might be almost as good.

“Did you know?” he asks, slicking Harry up, feeling the puckered skin and then the smooth. “Did you know when you came here? And how did you know?” He’s supposed to be the person who can read people. Harry’s never seemed like he can read even the most blatant social cues.

Harry’s breathing is far from steady. “I know what I needed, Joe. What I haven’t been getting.”

“You should’ve said something. Done something.” He’d seen Harry wound tighter and tighter by the day when Jesse had been in Zoom’s clutches, but this had never come close to occurring to him.

“You know this could never have happened before.”

“Maybe not.”

It’s not hard to open Harry up, and he could probably go faster than he does, sliding in fingers, spreading the lube. His own cock, throbbing under the attentions of his free hand, needs some relief. But it’s tough to surrender the way Harry groans, shifts, bucks up into him as Joe starts to thrust those fingers. Maybe Harry was some young, slim twink of a kid once, and just never grew out of it.

When he rolls on the condom and finally rubs the head of his cock against Harry’s entrance, he means to take it slow… And that’s as far as his resolve and patience goes, because he’s sliding and pushing in, Harry taking all of him with a moan that evens out into pleasure just as Joe’s going to ask if he’s okay, and then Harry’s reaching back for him. “God, fuck me. What are you waiting for?”

Joe grips his hip instead, and tugs. “Lift up.”

It’s only once Harry’s on his hands and knees, at just the right height, that Joe fucks him, gripping Harry’s hips and pushing, thrusting into him. “Oh yeah,” he murmurs, “yeah that’s good.” Chalk another one up in the list of things he’d thought he could live without. The sensation of Harry, hot and tight around him, is nothing like his own hand, and his hand never came with ragged breathing, moans of his name, and a man being undone right under him.

As good as it is already, it’s as impersonal as it can be, and Joe wants to touch him, feel him. So when Harry says “Deeper,” Joe sinks into him, wrapping an arm around Harry’s chest, his body flush with Harry’s arched back.

Harry doesn’t _say_ anything, words turning into choked breaths, the muscles and veins of his arms standing out more than ever as he takes Joe’s weight. Joe brushes fingertips against Harry’s nipples, kisses Harry just under his ear, tasting salt-sweat as Harry shivers with all the tension and pleasure of it. He can feel his own thrusts all the way through Harry’s body, the way Harry takes him, and most of all when his hand finally circles Harry’s straining cock. He’d forgotten the way that sex with a partner didn’t just mean his body was satisfied. It also meant he got to see, to feel, what that body could do to help another person feel good.

“Joe…”

Harry’s cock’s still slicked up with lube, maybe a little pre-come that Joe smooths around the head.

“I’m going to come in you. Like that, Harry? Going to take my come?” His thrusts in Harry’s ass can be matched by the workings of his hand now, and Harry’s rough breathing comes out as more of a sob.

“Earth-1 porn is… is that bad, huh?”

Joe gives his cock a slightly-too-hard squeeze. “Smartass.” He straightens up just to give Harry room to breathe. “Bet yours is just the same.”

“Mm.” Harry shifts his weight onto his left hand, reaching to touch himself with his right. “Just on vertical TV screens. But honestly I don’t pay much attention to the dialogue.”

“Is that your way of telling me to shut up?”

“Telling you to _get on with it_.”

Maybe it’s just as well Harry can’t see the grin that springs a little too easily to Joe’s face. Harry’s smiles are rare, his attitude all-too-serious when it isn’t straight-up desperate. But Joe can imagine taking this easier sometime. Enjoying it in a slower, lazier way.

For now, though, it’s his cock inside Harry’s clenched-tight ass, and Harry, head bowed, working himself, and Joe can feel their bodies working toward an unavoidable climax. _Come for me_ , Joe wants to say, wants Harry to know, anyway, even if it is stupid porn dialogue. It’s been actual bedroom dialogue more than a couple of times for Joe, and who the hell critiques this crap anyway? Harry Wells does. Of course he does. Joe should’ve figured that out before they ever came upstairs.

“Fuck,” Harry stutters out. “If you’re going to fuck me full of come, Joe…”

Now would be the time to do it.

It all goes faster than he expects. After all that buildup, taking his time, trying to imprint it on his memory in case it never happened again, his body just needs it too badly, his hips jerking as he pulls Harry back onto him, a fleeting concern about hurting Harry quickly pushed aside with Harry’s groans of “Yes, yes, just like that.” And he comes in a rush of heat and pleasure that leaves him feeling fuller than ever before, even as it feels like he’s shooting gallons into Harry, all of the needs and desires he’s had bottled up for years.

And Harry- Harry is _laughing_ for just a moment before he stops breathing completely, and Joe reaches around to feel him come, spurting over both their hands, his ass still tightening around Joe’s throbbing, spent cock.

“Yeah,” Joe says once he gets his breath back, hips still moving just a little, slowing down. “Yeah, I needed that.”

He sits back so he can get rid of the condom while Harry collapses into the sheets. “I needed that too,” Harry says, turning over and rubbing some life into his aching forearms. 

Harry’s a flushed, sweaty mess, wiping his come-smeared hand on his chest. Joe might look a little less red, his hair too short to be matted with sweat, but he could still use a shower. A long, long shower. This was far from the most athletic he’s ever been in the bedroom – oh boy – but he’s going to hurt in the morning, sore in places even the most hardcore gym workout doesn’t reach. It’s Harry, though, who gets up, disappears into the bathroom, and comes back looking a little neater, washcloth in hand.

“You can stay,” Joe says. “It’s late.”

Harry hands him the washcloth and stays standing there by the bed, unconcerned about his nakedness but frowning nonetheless. “I should get back.”

“To that big, empty room of yours? Have you got the heat working properly yet?” Joe had helped him carry a couch in there a week ago and been surprised by the chill.

“Some of the piping and circuitry was fried during the explosion two years ago… It’s going to take time.”

Time Harry probably hasn’t had in between metahuman attacks, traveling to other worlds, and searching for Jesse. “So you can stay.” Joe keeps his tone even, like he’s dealing with an easily-startled kitten, or maybe a foreign exchange student trying to get to grips with the English language. “Bed’s comfy. There are plenty of blankets. We have great breakfasts in the morning. I mean, one of my kids is a speedster, so…”

Harry bites his lip, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Your kids don’t need to know about this.”

“I’m pretty sure that whining noise that started up ten minutes ago is Wally watching Formula One from before he was born, so unless you’re planning on climbing down the drainpipe…”

Harry actually looks over at the window. “We’re only one floor up. Easy jump.”

“Well don’t come crying to me when you twist your ankle and the neighbors report a burglar.”

When Harry looks back at him, lowering his hands, there might be a glimmer of a smile on his lips again. “You don’t want to spend the rest of the evening with Wally? Barry?”

“ _Evening_.” The old clock radio by the bed reads almost midnight. “I want to spend it asleep. They should too, but I get that it’s not easy for any of us right now.”

“I might not sleep much,” Harry says, but it’s a warning that signals he’s already decided to stay.

“So long as you don’t snore.”

It’s a little more awkward than it should be under the covers, once Harry’s switched off the light and again checked the lock. Harry rolls in and doesn’t touch him, as though this is a military-assigned sleeping arrangement forced upon them due to practical needs. Joe has half an idea that if he reaches over and touches Harry first, he’ll get nothing more than a flinch in response.

He’s lying, eyes open, watching the play of light on the ceiling, streetlight through tree branches, when there’s a rustle of blankets and movement. First a palm flat on Joe’s belly, then a cheek in the crook of his shoulder.

“Good night, Joe,” Harry mutters.

It’s yet another thing he’s missed, having his arm around someone, holding them close as they drifted off to sleep. How many more experiences has he been missing all these years? If Harry just sticks around, he might discover every last one of them. 

“G’night,” Joe says, and doesn’t stop smiling.


End file.
